Aftermath
by Riter544
Summary: The UNOFFICIAL sequel to BR, AV, S23. Explanations and gore located inside.
1. Intro

*Video Camera clicks on*

Some initial static on the screen appears and then disappears just as quickly. A chair sits under a spotlight, the background shrouded in darkness. I, Riter554, appear from the left hand side (your left, not mine) and sit in the chair. (Also, I don't care if you don't know what I look like. Use your imagination, people.)

"Hi everyone," I wave casually at the camera, "I know that this might seem a little strange, but I figured that I'd send out a message to those of you who still haunt my stories."

I fold my hands and straighten my back in the uncomfortable folding chair.

"I know many of you are still waiting for an update on Final Intimacies," I take a breath, "Don't worry, those are still coming. My life has become increasingly busy (although that's never really a valid excuse), and even though I have less time to write, I enjoy it more. So hopefully the upcoming vignettes will be up to scratch."

I nervously brush some hair away from my forehead. In case you haven't noticed by now, I hate the spotlight.

"Truthfully, my computer crashed last week, and while I had backed up most of my files, I was worried that I'd lose some that I hadn't managed to save on my flash drive." I take another breath. "I've been told that my computer should be fixed by next week, and that all my documents should be intact."

I try to smile – it looks uncomfortable.

"That means that I'll be posting some new Final Intimacies soon." I clap my hands together. "For some of you, I know that means you'll be happy (hopefully). But for others, all you can say is, 'I'm just waiting for another OC Battle Royale. All your other writing sucks.' To which I say, you may have a point, but I don't care."

I grin at the camera – truthfully, I'm only comfortable being mean, sarcastic, or both.

"However, my computer crashing has made me look over my Battle Royale, American Version, Season 23 story again, and I remembered how much I enjoyed writing it. Sure, it had its problems, but so do I, and so do you, and so did my characters." I shake my head. "So many problems."

A figure steps from the shadows behind me. I become aware of his presence as he kneels down, placing the scythe to my neck.

"You tried to make me tragic," Jeff says as he stares at the side of my face. I refuse to look at him. "But all you did was make me whiny."

With a quick yank backwards, Jeff slices into my throat and my head pops off my body.

*Static*

The camera flicks back on, and I am once again seated in the chair, my head magically reattached to my body. There is no scar or any blood, and I chuckle at the camera. I place a hand behind my head and rub my neck, slightly embarrassed.

"Sorry about that," I say, "Sometimes I'm reminded a little too much that my characters don't always appear like I want them to."

I smile widely at the camera, "And I guess I lost my head. Ha ha-"

I'm cut short as an arrow pierces my chest shot from behind the camera. Paul steps from the right side.

"That's not funny," he says, and then flashes a wide smile into the camera.

*Static*

"Fine, no more bad puns," I say, once again seated in the chair with no damage done to my body.

"Basically, I missed the enjoyment of writing my own Battle Royale," I pause as a girl drifts out of the darkness beside me. Ariana runs a soft hand down my cheek, and then slowly down my chest.

"So…um…like I was…saying," I try to focus, but Ariana's low cleavage is practically shoved into my face as her hand drifts lower and lower. "I missed the characters…and their…histories and fights…and…um…" Ariana places a soft kiss on my cheek, and my face flares up red as a strawberry.

"So…I want to write…another OC Battle Royale…" I pause as Ariana begins to kiss my neck. I try to speak, but before anything else comes out, Ariana dives in, her teeth bared. She pulls her head back, part of my esophagus trailing from her mouth. Blood erupts from the open hole in my neck, covering the camera lens in red thickness.

*Static*

A close up of my face as I wipe the blood off the lens. I open my mouth to breathe on the camera, giving you a perfect view of my uvula before returning to a shot of the snots stuck up my nose. I wipe more traces of blood off the glass.

*Static*

I take a deep breath, my face slightly annoyed. I'm leaned forward, my forearms resting on my knees, once again unharmed, seated in the chair.

"Okay, so I've finally decided to write a sequel to my BR, AV, S23 story. The only reason I'm calling it a sequel is because I'm having it take place after the previous story. Other than similar weapons, there isn't a whole lot linking this story with its predecessor. Maybe I'll change that as the story progresses, but I doubt that."

Matt appears on the left side of the screen. I glance at him casually before returning my attention to the camera in front of me. I open my mouth to speak, but Matt cuts me off.

"Hurry, Meatwad!" Matt says, chucking a meatball at my face, "Quick, turn into a hotdog!" The gooey meat sticks to my cheek, and I don't even bother to try and wipe it off. I continue to stare blankly at the camera.

"No, not the igloo!" Matt says, "The hotdog! Quick!" He sighs and chucks some moldy fries into my face. "It's up to you, Frylock! Use your laser beams or something! I know, your braces of death!"

I open my mouth to speak but once again I am cut off by Matt's ravings.

"I'll help you!" And he lunges at me, mouth wide open. He knocks me over and we both fall to the floor.

*Static*

The chair is empty when the camera flicks back on. There's some light breathing that can be heard off screen, but nothing moves into the field of vision. Suddenly, Matt's head pops up from below the camera, the remnants of my face draped over his own.

"I'm Leatherface!" he yells before-

*Static*

Once again I sit in the chair, in perfect health (somewhat). I'm scowling at the camera, obviously desperate to finish this FUCKING MESSAGE.

"Okay. So I'm thinking about a sequel. Okay. Don't worry, even if I do start writing it now, I won't post any of it until I'm done with Final Intimacies. I don't like to leave things unfinished." I sigh, and lean back in the chair. "For all of you who took my survey and left me reviews, thanks for helping me with my first story. Really, I wouldn't be writing another if it wasn't for the support and criticism you were willing to give. I appreciate you guys for taking the time to help me by telling me, honestly, what rocks and what sucks."

A girl steps in front of the camera, blocking the view of me sitting in the chair.

"What do you want?" I say, my voice on the edge of being raised. Donna steps closer to me, giving the camera a full view of her back and the top of her ass.

"You killed me off first!" She screams and then lunges at me.

*Static*

Once again the camera clicks on and the chair is empty. Some noise can be heard in the background, but nothing comes into view until-

I stumble in from the left side of the screen. Donna is perched on my back, pulling my hair and clawing at my face.

"First!" she screeches as I sway and stagger off the screen to the right, "FIRST!!!!!"

*Static*

I'm seated once again, a hand covering my face. I glare at the camera before me between my fingers for a long time before I start speaking again.

"As you may have noticed, I've recorded this under a story named Aftermath. That was the title of the sequel I was thinking of writing, following Leslie in her trials and tribulations as the winner of BR, AV, S23. I've written a few chapters that I will post here once I get my computer back, assuming I haven't lost those documents. Read them for your own pleasure, but I've decided not to use them. I will be taking Leslie on a different route and will probably have her appear in my new sequel as a different character than those portrayed in the chapters of Aftermath. So like I said, enjoy them if you can, but they are stand alone (complexes)."

I take another deep breath.

"So bear with me people. I know I haven't been updating like I should, and I appreciate those of you who continue to stick by me. I hope I can continue to entertain you with my writing (if that's truly what I manage to do)."

Another deep breath. I manage a smile that looks only halfway genuine.

"So thanks for listening to me for this long, I promise-"

I'm cut off as Isaac runs in from off screen. He raises a foot and proceeds to stamp my groin into submission.

"How the fuck do you like it?" he says as I topple onto the ground and he kicks me a few more times for good measure. He straightens up and mutters, "Bastard." He walks by the camera and knocks it to the ground. The lens cracks, but you can still see me in the fetal position, clutching my stomach and gagging. I gaze over and stare into the camera. I open my mouth to say something, but a tsunami of vomit emerges from my mouth and flows over the camera.

*Static*


	2. MacKenzie House

I reach out to knock on the door, but then slowly retract my hand. I draw it close to my body, slowly rubbing it with my other hand. My fingers trace over a well pronounced scar on the back of my hand. Just for an instant, I can see that boy again, the nail gun grasped tightly in his hand. And the iron nail protruding out from the back of my own. The nail that would have easily buried itself into my forehead if my hand had not been there.

I shake the memory away, and extend my hand again. I knock loudly twice, before I turn away from the door. I don't want to be staring at it when the door is answered. Instead, I begin to take in my surroundings. The front yard is a bright green. Someone at the house clearly takes pride in the lawn because I can't spy even the slightest hint of discoloration or maltreatment. The lawn is fenced in, to prevent dogs from soiling the luscious color.

It is the lawn that makes this house stand out among the others - the others are much greyer. The grass looks like rusty pins being pushed up from the earth. There are no other fences on this street. No barriers protecting the houses from external abuse – by animals or otherwise.

The sound of the door opening enters my ears, and I slowly spin back around, brushing some blond hair away from my face. A woman stands in the doorway, her attempt at a warm smile trying to draw attention from the dull, lifeless look in her eyes. They would resemble HIS eyes, if only the life would return to them. In fact, they look like his eyes did when I woke up from my dream, my arms wrapped around his cold body…

"Hello." The woman begins, already sizing me up. I'm not a reporter looking for a story, I'm clearly too young for that. That fact alone was probably the only reason she decided to open the door for me. I examine her as well, taking notice that she's dressed in a nightgown with a robe tossed over her shoulders. I know that it's two in the afternoon, and decide that she probably doesn't leave the house much anymore, taking away the necessity of changing into clothes.

"What can I do for you?" She sounds like a machine. There's no true emotion in her voice, and I am fully aware of that point. I wonder if I used to sound that way, if I was ever able to completely remove my emotions from my voice. I'm not so sure anymore. But that doesn't matter – I'm a different person now.

"Mrs. MacKenzie?" I ask. I'm sure that I'm at the right house, but I want to make sure. She takes a hesitant step back and her smile disappears for a second. I can see she's wondering if I'm not too young to be a reporter. Or maybe another agent trying to market her son's performance on The Program.

"Yes," she says, "What do you want?"

"Mrs. MacKenzie, my name's Leslie." I introduce myself, smiling as warmly as I can, "I was a friend of your son."

Her mouth drops open and she stumbles backward like I've punched her in the gut. Her flat eyes spring to life, tears already streaming down the side of her face.

"You knew Connor?" she asks. At the mention of his name, tears begin to well in my eyes. What had once been a forbidden act now became the norm when Connor entered my thoughts. I still dream about him a lot, only to wake up in a cold sweat and perversely wish to be with him back in that terrifying playing field. And when I'm riding the subway to go deeper into the city, I stare out the windows and replay my time with him over and over again. The things we said to each other, and the things we never were able to say.

I nod in response to Mrs. MacKenzie's question and without warning she flings herself on me, wrapping me in a frail but comforting hug. I return the gesture, my thoughts drifting to what I remember of my own mother. I don't remember much, but when I was released of my uncle's care, I came into the possession of my parents' items. Things my uncle had hidden away from me. I can remember their faces now, thanks to the pictures I finally acquired. That's the most welcome change, I think.

"Please, come inside." Mrs. MacKenzie tells me, tugging me inside. The door is closed behind me, and I slowly follow her into the house. The house itself isn't very big, but the inside feels very spacious. All the furniture is positioned around the edge of the rooms, leaving plenty of room in the center. The correct windows are open for maximum circulation, and the warm breeze drifting through the house is comforting. Very Feng shui. I like it.

Mrs. MacKenzie pulls me over to the sofa and sits me down. She reclines also before immediately jumping back to her feet. She asks if I want anything to drink. I decline, but she asks again, and so I reply that I'd just like a glass of water. She smiles so genuinely, and for a minute, I can see Connor's face again as we sit on the beach during that sunset, his grin shaming the sun with its brilliance.

Mrs. MacKenzie leaves and I glance around the room. It is laced with framed photographs of Connor and of another boy I can only assume is his brother Charlie. One in particular draws my attention. I stand and walk over to it, picking it up off the table on which it rested. I notice that there isn't a speck of dust anywhere on the photos, and my mind drifts to Mrs. MacKenzie for just a moment.

I stare down at the photo, seeing the three figures smiling widely back at the camera. The two sons are still small, and the man who can only be their father has a hand resting on each of his son's head. The two boys hold fishing rods in their hands. A tackle box lies at their feet.

"I love that picture." The voice surprises me a little, but I turn around calmly as Mrs. MacKenzie approaches me with two glasses of liquid. She hands me the water and keeps the other glass that contains something resembling wine. She takes a deep gulp as I sip the water. The woman takes the photo from me and stares down at it with a soft smile.

"This was the day that my husband took our sons fishing. I took this picture in the morning before they left. Charlie and Connor –"she chokes on the name but regains herself, "- were so happy to spend the day with their father. He's very busy all the time, so they were all excited about the fishing trip. They didn't catch very much. Connor caught the biggest one. But he let it go. That's just the kind of boy he was."

I smile, recognizing the story, but not quite the way Connor originally told me. I'm about to answer when I hear the sound of the door swinging open and then quietly shut. Footsteps echo down the hallway as a tall man suddenly appears in the room. His military suit is pressed perfectly and pins decorate his chest. He places his hat on a nearby stand before raising his eyes and freezing.

"Honey, look who came to visit." Mrs. MacKenzie says as she approached her husband, "A friend of Connor's has stopped by."

Sergeant MacKenzie gazes at his wife with surprise, no doubt shocked to see her displaying so much emotion. But he slowly his gaze shifts, and he eyes me suspiciously.

"Nice to meet you, sir." I say turning to face him completely. He doesn't smile. He merely stares at me, nodding in recognition. I stare back, examining him closely. He's broad, much broader than Connor could have become. But despite that, his face holds the same structure Connor's did. The slant of the nose. The pronounced chin. The hair styled in the exact same manner. This is what Connor would have grown into. If he was still alive.

"I'll start your lunch now." Mrs. MacKenzie turns toward the kitchen. She addresses me, "Would you like anything, dear?"

I shake my head with a grateful smile and face Sergeant MacKenzie once again. His stare has not wavered. He slowly walks toward me until he's only a foot away. I'm not completely aware of what he's thinking, but I take a deep breath, readying myself for anything.

"What are you doing here, Leslie?" he whispers.

"So, you know who I am." It's not a question. It's more of an observation. I'm not very surprised, since my face has been all over the news since my victory in The Program. Not everyone recognizes me, but those that do either ask for my photograph or leap out of my way, avoiding me at all costs.

"I've watched that season of The Program more times than I can remember. I know every contestant-"

"Don't say contestant." I say, and he looks surprised that I interrupted him, "It makes us sound like numbers."

He opens his mouth to speak, but then closes it. He moves around to a large armchair and sinks into it. I remain standing for a moment until he motions for me to sit and I decide to comply. The silence is heavy for a few minutes, like the both of us are trying to decide what needs to be said.

"I saw how you took care of Connor during The Program." Sergeant MacKenzie says, "I want you to know that it meant a lot to us. I think we all knew that Connor wasn't coming home to us. The fact that he had you, well, I think it was a comfort to us all."

"Your wife doesn't seem to know who I am." I say.

"She couldn't bring herself to watch The Program. I'm sure you can understand. Your parents-"

Again I interrupt him, "My parents are dead. I guess that conversation didn't make it into the season's highlights."

"Are you surprised?" the Sergeant asks, "People watch The Program for all the blood, sex, and sweat that it has. No one cares about what actually matters – the people. Because if the audience understands that they're watching people dying and not an actor or an object, then it becomes too real."

I nod in agreement as the door opens and shuts again.

"Mom! Dad! I'm here to-" The voice stops as a young man walks into the room. His young face still holds the boyish grin I see surrounding me in the countless pictures. His pressed green suit matches his father's, without the countless awards pinned to his chest and sleeves. Charlie's eyes settled on me, right before they narrow harshly.

"You…" he hisses before lunging forward with a cry of fury. My eyes widen in surprise, but my body's already responding. The glass of water is flung forward, catching the man by surprise. He blinks through the water, carefully aiming a punch at my face. I roll out of the way, his fist settling into the back of the sofa. He spins quickly as the Sergeant cries out for him to stop.

I'm squatting low to the ground as Charlie charges me again. He swings a kick in my direction but I dodge it, and then deftly move around the punches thrown in my direction. With a cry, he charges forward, driving his shoulder into my gut, and then quickly uppercuts me beneath my chin.

I stumble back a few steps and my eyes narrow as the beast stirs inside me. I raise my fists and assume my fighting position. Charlie comes at me again, but I swing out a fist of my own. This takes him by surprise, but he's able to absorb the blow with a flexed bicep. I duck beneath a hook aimed at my face and take the opportunity to land three quick punches to Charlie's gut. He stumbles back and I leap into the air. His eyes widen as I quickly extend my leg and place a hard kick to his throat.

Charlie falls back several feet, landing in the kitchen and knocking several chairs over. Mrs. MacKenzie screams from shock as Charlie climbs to his feet.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Charlie curses when he's finally standing again, "I know who you are! You're the winner! You won the last Program!" He moves to the side, deftly grabbing hold of two kitchen knives lying at his disposal. "Connor had to die so that you could live."

The Sergeant appears behind me, yelling at Charlie to put the knives down. Charlie completely ignores him. He stares hard at me, his knuckles white from gripping the weapons so tightly. Mrs. MacKenzie meekly extends a hand toward her son, the tears falling from her eyes.

"You're dishonoring Connor by being here!" Charlie screams at me. The beast deep inside my soul roars with fury. My fingers clench until they resemble the claws of the monster inside me. Charlie yells with pure hatred as he races at me again, the blades racing towards my face.

I roar back, watching time slow down as the razor sharp edges come closer to my head. I instantly reach out, grabbing one of Charlie's wrists. I twist it hard, watching the pain spread over his face. The knife slips from his hand and I grab it before it hits the ground. He swipes with the other blade, but the edge grazes right by my face, just missing the soft flesh there. I swipe upwards with the knife I'm holding, watching the blade sink into the side of his closed palm. Charlie screams in agony as the second knife clatters to the kitchen floor along with several drops of blood.

"I loved Connor!" I scream at Charlie and kick him hard in the stomach. The man groans and tumbles backwards to the ground. He's clutching his wounded hand, but his eyes don't leave my face. The fury is still sweeping through my body, but slowly it is being replaced with sadness.

"I loved him! He cared more about me than anyone ever did, and he's dead!" I stop for a moment, staring down at the scar on the back of my hand again. "Every morning I wake up, I have to face reality again. I'm alive and Connor's dead. Only one person was allowed to walk away, and it was me. How do you think that makes me feel? Don't you think I've considered what would have happened if Connor had survived? If that were possible, I'd do it in a heartbeat."

I pause for a moment, the three family members all staring at me, clinging to my words. "Connor is dead." The words are the most difficult ones I've had to say in a long time. The tears are flowing freely now. I let the knife fall away from my grasp. It clatters to the ground, the tainted blade spreading more red on the white floor.

"And there's nothing that can bring him back. He's gone."

Charlie begins to cry. He clutches his wounded hand to his chest, letting the red stain his green suit creating a murky brown. Mrs. MacKenzie drops to her knees as the legs give out beneath her. She covers her mouth in an attempt to control the hiccups her sobbing has created.

"I came here to recruit you." I say. Again, I have their rapt attention, "We can't bring Connor back. But we can avenge him. We can stop The Program from ever claiming another life. So that no one has to suffer like we do."

Mrs. MacKenzie has stopped sobbing. She stares up at me, her eyes once again filled with life.

"Stop The Program?" Charlie says weakly, "How can we do that?"

"Why not put that fury to some good use?" I ask, reaching into my pocket. I pull out a small piece of folded paper. I turn and had it over to Sergeant MacKenzie, he slowly extends his arm, like he's in a daze. There are still tears in his eyes and the lines seem more pronounced in his face. He takes it weakly.

"There's an address on that paper. I will be there in one week at 7 pm. If you want to join the Resistance, be there at that time." I leave the kitchen as Mrs. MacKenzie extends a towel to wrap Charlie's hand. The Sergeant follows me to the door. I open it and pause before heading outside. I turn back to face the man with the tired-looking face.

"If you don't show, then I hope that Connor's memory won't eat away at you until there's nothing left."

I walk down the steps and over the luscious green grass. And then, I'm gone.


	3. Supermarket

I hate shopping in the supermarket. It's too public a place, and for someone like me who's recognized almost everywhere I go, public places are my least favorite places. I usually put on a hat and maybe some sunglasses if it's a sunny day, but somehow these people still find me. The ones who have watched The Program over and over. Who could recite the order in which the contestants died. The ones who have memorized my face, on the off-chance of meeting me somewhere to talk about my performance, or my relationship with Connor. Or what it's like to murder someone else.

I don't understand what allure they find in The Program. Honestly, I think it all boils down to a lack in self esteem. These people desperately ask what it's like to be at war, to fight for your life. How does it feel? It fucking SUCKS. Distrust and paranoia are your new best friends, because your old best friends are now shooting at you. Sleep becomes a liability, and sanity a hindrance. These people don't actually want to be in The Program. They want a romanticized version that's portrayed on the television. They want the grandeur of claiming a life, or the honor of dying after giving everything you have. They want to feel like they're worth something. I've tried to tell these people many times before – The Program doesn't justify your existence. It's not some all knowing, omnipotent, enlightening experience. It's cold blooded murder. And if you're the lucky one who's alive when the bullets stop flying and the blood stops flowing, then all you're able to feel is emptiness. Just overwhelming loneliness. And guilt. The guilt never seems to go away.

Food shopping is a necessary evil. After all, I have to eat. And food won't magically appear inside my refrigerator. I've tried services to do the shopping for me, and I enjoyed that for a while. It severely cut down on meetings with curious strangers. But even with my government stipend, I couldn't keep up with the steep price for the groceries, tuition for my self defense classes, as well as paying for my college education. Cutting corners never hurt anyone, and so I do my own shopping. I wash my laundry in the Laundromat. I buy clothes in Wal-Mart when they're on sale. There's nothing wrong with saving money.

I'm examining some of the oranges. The ones in the orange mesh bag are cheaper, but they all appear bruised, and some have mold growing on them. The individual oranges look huge, but they're probably mostly rind, and I don't like paying extra for food. I can get oranges next week. I push the cart along, moving on to the bunches of bananas. They're on sale, so I stock up, knowing that I'll go through fifteen bananas in a week. They're the perfect snack between classes or on the bus ride back to my tiny apartment, or after my self defense class is finished.

I grab a bag of white grapes, whose name I never understood because they're clearly green, and leave the fruit produce aisle. I've finished a good majority of my shopping, since I mostly eat fruits and vegetables these days. I've recently had trouble keeping meat inside my system (still not sure why) and deli meats are always so expensive. I'm no where near a vegetarian, but the fruits and veggies are much cheaper and help me keep up my energy. I walk down the soup aisle, stopping by the ramen and piling the dried noodles into my carriage. These things are cheap as hell, and they fill me up. They're loaded with salts, but I drink enough water so that doesn't matter.

My carriage jerks slightly, and the sound of an impact reaches my ears. I quickly eye the items in my carriage, and see that nothing is damaged.

"I'm very sorry, miss." A low male's voice sounds close to me, "I lost control for a minute-"

I stare up at him from under my baseball cap and as I do, he stops immediately. His eyes widen instinctively, and then his face droops to a very familiar apathetic stare. I study the man before me, examine the way his eyes narrow, notice how his mouth purses in anxiety. I've seen this cold expressionless face before. And then I realize it.

Boy #22, one of the major contenders. His name was Jeff. I never had to face him in battle, but I do remember stumbling into his presence with Connor. He was curled into a tiny ball, allowing the icy rain to fall upon his huddled figured, sobbing without reserve. That scene never made it to The Program's highlights, since the government doesn't want even their most successful killer to appear the slightest bit human. But Jeff's countless murders were all on the DVD set.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if Jeff and I had to fight. He seemed to be an unorthodox and talented fighter, one I probably would have had trouble defeating. If Jeff hadn't freaked out and shot Connor when we found him, but instead had stayed around to fight, would I still be standing here, staring into the face of the boy's father?

The man opens his mouth to speak.

"Jeff…" I whisper.

He recoils like I've struck him. There is no doubt about it – this man is Jeff's father. The man's eyes wander around the scene, looking for any form of escape from my stare. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't force this man to continue with this torment. But for some reason, I just can't look away. I look at his face, my eyes asking all the questions for me.

Did you know that your son was suffering? Were you aware of just how damaged he was? You must have had some hint, some clue that something wasn't quite right. Or maybe there was nothing there for you to notice – your son was completely absent, wasn't he? He went to school, maybe had a part time job, and then came home and locked himself in his room. Did the fact that he had friends convince you that he was doing fine? That if we wasn't talking to you, he must have been talking to, confiding in, someone else?

But that's not the case, was it? He was completely alone. He killed his friends without a second thought. The boy was constantly crying out in pain – were you too busy to notice? Did you not care? How does it feel to know that your son is a murderer? Are you ashamed? Are you thankful that The Program didn't release our last names so that no one will know Jeff was your son? Or do you still grieve him, knowing that somehow you played some role in his isolation? He killed 13 other people out there on the battlefield. He killed them and justified every death, because he was suffering.

Can you feel his pain now that he's gone?

"Honey, I finally found those crackers…" a woman approaches us, looking over at Jeff's father. When she receives no response, she finally glances at me as if she was completely unaware that I was standing there as well. It takes a minute, Jeff's mother staring at me, recognizing my face from somewhere but not quite sure from where. And when it finally clicks, it hits her hard. The bright yellow box of crackers slips from her hands and clatters to the tiled floor.

"Oh…" It sounds more like a moan than some sound of recognition. One of her hands stops on her bosom, like she's trying to prevent her heart from bursting out of her chest. Her other hand covers her mouth before some horrific scream can escape her lips.

"Excuse me." I say weakly and maneuver my way around them. I walk down the entire aisle without turning back. The sound of soft stifled sobs reaches my ears as I reach the far end and turn the corner. I push the carriage over to the checkout, and am exceptionally relieved as a new register opens just as I approach. All I want to do is escape this supermarket. An overweight woman sees the open space and tries to force her carriage over and cut me off. I plow my carriage directly into the side of hers and when she opens her fat mouth to complain, a single harsh stare quiets her immediately. I don't know if she has recognized me or not, but at this point it doesn't matter.

The teenager running the register must be new, because he has to look up all the produce codes for my fruits and vegetables. He also must be trying to break the record for the slowest ring-up in the history of the store, because he seems to be moving in slow motion. He finally finishes and reads off the price. I hand him the money and watch him as he counts out the change – three times. Finally satisfied, he hands me the money, just as another stifled cry reaches my ears. I see him raise his eyes to the sight that everyone in the store must be staring at – the woman trying to hide the fact that she's crying her eyes out, and the blank stare of the man standing with her.

I refuse to turn my head. I bolt for the door, not caring how ridiculous I look. The automatic doors swing open and the fresh air welcomes me. I take a deep breath and then another, just for good measure. I pull the bags of groceries from my carriage and leave it off to the side. I glance along the street and jog across it toward the bus stop.

I will never shop in that supermarket ever, EVER, again.


	4. Bus

"Mind if I join you?" The question seems almost too polite to be from a teenage boy, and I immediately begin to analyze his ulterior motives. It could be that he's simply drawn to the blond girls in baseball caps and sunglasses. Or maybe he likes the company on bus rides into the city. But my gut reaction tells me that this bastard has recognized me, and that I'm about to get bombarded with questions regarding my performance on The Program.

I stare up at him over my sunglasses and shoot him the harshest glare I can manage. It doesn't seem to faze him at all. The boy smiles widely revealing teeth slightly tinted yellow. For a minute, I can sense the warmth of his smile, and it reminds me of Connor, and the boyish grin he'd give me every once in a while. And I consider that maybe, just maybe, there's nothing else at play here other than a boy wanting a place sit down.

I slide to the side and he sits down in a rush, thanking me in the process. I turn my attention outside the bus, as the buildings begin to float by. It's a surprisingly sunny day for autumn, and what few trees are present in the city have already begun to lose their leaves. My windbreaker is enough for the chill that sweeps by every once in a while, but won't be enough when dark falls. Luckily, I've thought ahead and brought other articles of clothing for the wait at the bust stop after my self defense class. I sweat so much during class, and if I don't have something to keep me warm, the cold air mixed with my sweat raises my chances of catching a cold.

And with everything that I'm doing, I can't afford to get sick.

Connor's father and brother have been giving me what little information they come across regarding The Program. This is difficult because they can't appear eager to gain knowledge about it. Everyone in their respective departments is aware that Connor died in the latest Program, and so his family is being monitored for "traitorous" actions. My guess is that valuable information will become available after a few more years, once the surveillance is slackened. Once we figure out how the collars work and discover the next location of The Program, we can enter the playing field and deactivate the collars from within, saving as many contestants as possible – and slowly build our ranks. Once we build the army we need, we can nullify The Program by removing the contestants before the death tolls become too large. And with no contestants, The Program will steadily crumble.

I see the boy in the window's reflection, stealing glances at me every few minutes. It seems that allowing him to sit with me was a mistake. Luckily, my stop is coming up in a few minutes, and if I can keep ignoring him until then, he won't have the opportunity to ask-

"Can I ask you something?" he whispers discreetly to the back of my head. I grit my teeth. No good deed goes unpunished. I decide to blatantly disregard him, hoping that he'll take the hint and realize I'm not in the mood to entertain him.

"Hey." He whispers again and taps me on the shoulder. I respond immediately to physical contact and spin around to face him.

"What do you want?" I hiss at him threateningly. Again, my scare tactics don't faze him at all. He smiles warmly at me again.

"I was wondering if you could answer my question."

"No."

"How about, I ask my question, and if you don't want to answer, then you don't have to."

"How about I sit here in silence for the rest of the bus ride or you learn what it's like to swallow your own teeth."

"Swallowing teeth, huh?" he replies with a grin, "Well that would create a big scene for everyone else on the bus. And once they see my bleeding face on the ground and you standing over me spooning my teeth into my mouth, it won't take long for everyone to recognize you."

I glare at him furiously. I don't need Program fans bouncing around me asking for an autograph. And I don't need a riot of paranoid people freaking out that I may decide to murder everyone on the bus either. Both have happened, and I'm not too happy with either. So I decide to submit. If he wants the answer to one question, I can give it to him. As long as Connor's name isn't brought up.

"I'll take your silence as an agreement." The boy says and then turns to face me, even though I'm not looking at him. "The audience is always told that weapon distribution is random."

"It is." I interrupt quickly.

"That wasn't my question."

I sigh in frustration.

"So, here's the thing. If weapons are randomly assigned, then how is it that a student can have information files about the other contestants? They have a list of the students – along with their weapon. How can anyone know beforehand who has what weapon if they are randomly assigned?"

This is no where near the question I was expecting. Whoever this boy is, he's not an ordinary one. He's clearly far more observant than the majority of Program fans, since this is the first time I've ever been asked this question. And despite my contempt for him earlier, I admit that he is more mature than most kids his age.

"The weapons list is agreed upon before the contestants are known, and a weapon is assigned to a number. The fork was assigned to Girl #25. The contestants are chosen (randomly or otherwise) and assigned to numbers. I was given the number 25, and so I was given the fork. Weapons are randomly distributed, but they are known in advance to the government. So they can make contestant files and give them to a student as their weapon."

"Doesn't that leave a big opportunity to give certain students advantages over others?" The boy asks, his eyes focusing hard on me. I'm surprised by his intensity and the thought he's put behind these thoughts. "I mean, isn't it possible, with that way of doing things, for the government to 'randomly' give a useless weapon to a student they might see as a potential threat later on?"

I smile for the first time since I walked onto that bus.

"Of course. They gave me a fork."

He looks stunned for a second, but his warm smile returns to him almost immediately. The bus slows and I realize that it's time for me to get off. I tell this to the boy and he stands to allow me to slide out of the bus seat.

"My brother…" he begins, but the stops. I freeze. I stare down at him, and I watch as the warm smile remains on his face as tears begin to stream down his face.

"They gave him a rose. A flower. That was his weapon."

The bus slows to a stop.

"Joshua. Boy #1. My big brother was really smart – at the top of his class. And they gave him a rose, because he was too smart."

"What's your name?" I ask, motioning for the bus driver to wait.

"Jason." He voice is a little muffled because he's wiping the tears from his face.

"If you ever want to talk with me, here's my phone number." I hand him a small piece of paper on which I've scrawled my number. He takes it, not exactly sure how to respond.

"It seems to me that your brother wasn't the only intelligent in your family." I say with a smirk, "And I may need your smarts in the future."

Jason stares at me in complete confusion as I turn back around and get off the bus. I can see him in the corner of my eye rushing to the window and staring at me as the bus pulls away. He might be too young to do anything now, but if he wants to fight against the government which took away his brother, then I can give him the opportunity. I'm sure I can find something for him to do, and it won't hurt to have more people join my cause.

Even little boys grow up to become men someday.


	5. Apartment

I don't remember being this tired in a very long time. Studying for my exams is taking up more time than I expected it would. I'm no genius, so I have to continually keep at my work before I understand it. I'm not failing any of my classes – in fact, I'm probably somewhere near the top. Homework is a great way to take up time I would otherwise be forced to think about my life, my situation, my memories. But despite my continued work in my subjects, the finals are encompassing more than I'm ready to be tested on. And so I've been spending much of my free time preparing for these massive tests.

Sleep has been knocked down to the lowest priority. That wasn't such a big problem at first, since I haven't gotten much sleep in general, but it's finally caught up with me. My exams will be over in a week or so, and after that maybe I'll finally rest up. In the meantime, I study, I work out, and I continue improving my hacking skills. I still haven't made too much process, but when summer's here, I'll have plenty of time to devote to my war against The Program. Time isn't on my side, since another season of The Program will be ready to go before I know it. But as much as I don't like it, I can't rush into things before I'm ready. I meet with the Sergeant and Charlie once every couple of weeks in secret, so that there's no evidence connecting us. They don't have too many updates for me whenever we meet, but seeing them is enough of a comfort. Sometimes I forget that I'm not completely alone anymore.

I see Jason sometimes too. I enjoy my time with him, chatting about the meaningless details of our lives. We don't meet to have deep and meaningful conversations – sometimes the simple act of existing with another person is enough to continue onward. When I think back, that's really all Connor and I did. We chatted sometimes, but those moments were mostly Connor talking at me while I…

I don't like to remember how I used to treat him. I was…unnecessarily cold and harsh. Some people would make the claim that, taking my past into account, my demeanor is not very surprising. But even so…I wish I had realized how important he was to me sooner. I wish I had been kinder to him. I wish…

I trudge down the dimly lit hallway towards my apartment. My gym bag hangs loosely from my shoulder, my backpack clutched in my other hand. My self defense classes are what really wear me out. Even my performance during those classes has slackened, and my teacher has raised his concerns the past few classes. He advised that I take some time off during this stressful time, but I don't plan on doing that. The only time my mind is at peace is when I'm fighting. That may seem ironic to some, but I don't care. Only rarely has my mind wandered back to The Program while I've been sparring, and when that happens, I excuse myself before something awful happens. Otherwise, the freedom I feel when I slide around the room, dodging blows and throwing some of my own. It's like I put a small part of myself into my fists and feet, allowing myself to remove the rage and hatred from my being, if only for a while. That class is more therapeutic than anything else. I can't stop going, even for a little while – I don't know what would happen to me.

My backpack slips from my hand and I stop to bend over and grasp the strap again. My door looms just off to the side, the metallic numbers reflecting what little light remains in the hallway. I move in front of my door and allow both bags to drop from my arms thumping to the ground. I reach into my packet and produce my key. I glance down at the doorknob and slide my key into the lock. My eyes settle on the floor at the base of the entrance. I draw in a quick gasp and my eyes widen in surprise as shadows shift around from the other side of the door. Someone is inside my apartment.

I leap to the side just as a bullet comes screaming through my wooden door where I had been standing. Another one follows suit, and then a third bullet pierces my door. I take two quick breaths and then move in front of my splintered entrance. With a powerful kick the door swings open, striking the person on the other side. I hear a masculine grunt as I move forward, pushing the door out of my way. A man dressed completely in black stares at me through the holes of a ski mask. He quickly raises his gun at me, but I'm ready for him.

My gym bag is launched at his face before he can fire. It knocks him off balance, giving me enough time to close the distance between us. I swing a kick upwards, removing the gun from his hands. It clatters off to the side and slides into obscurity. I swing a fist out, connecting with his face. The man stumbles backwards and I land a punch into his kidney. It takes a minute for the pain to register, but suddenly he's writhing on the ground, clutching his side.

Before I can move in to knock him out, the man reaches into a hidden pocket, and produces a switchblade. He swings it madly at me, and I leap back to safety. He places both feet on the ground and squares off against me. I move my fists closer up to my face to protect my eyes in case he decides to fling the blade at me. The man thinks this change in posture means that I'm vulnerable closer to my abdomen and lurches at me, the blade aimed at my gut. I deftly step to the side, grabbing hold of the wrist holding the switchblade. His eyes widen in surprise just as I reach down with my other hand, and in a quick fluid motion, I break the man's wrist.

He screams in agony and the blade clatters to the floor. I release my hold on him and step backwards as he clutches his hand close to him. He glares up at me with an intense hatred, a stare that seems somehow familiar. Ignoring the pain in his wrist, the man lunges at me again. I wait for the correct moment and then place a well timed kick directly into his groin. The man doesn't scream this time, but he begins to vomit inside his ski mask. He removes it and allows the puke to flow onto my floor.

"You…fucking…bitch…" He says to me between gasps. He glares up at me again, with that same familiar stare. I don't respond to him, and I don't drop my guard either. I wait for his next move.

"Do you…think…you've won?" The man seethes with hate. He continues, "I…will…kill…you."

Again I don't respond. I'm still watching. Waiting. If he's going to tell me why he's trying to kill me, it will be now.

He stumbles to his feet, and I'm surprised that he can stand. I haven't seen anyone shake off a kick to the groin since…

"You…killed…Isaac."

I see it now. That stare filled with rage. I know where I've seen it before. The image floated inside my mind. Isaac stares down at me, his hate-filled eyes filling with fear. The machete is wedged between the tail of the hammer. A second later and the large blade would have cleaved my face in half. But I have stopped it. A split second later the hunting knife is jabbed into his throat. Another split second later, and a portion of Isaac's skull is chopped from the rest of his head.

"I…watched…over and over…" the man says, "My son…cried out…for me just…just before you…you…"

Tears fill his angry eyes. My arms droop by my sides. Numbness slowly fills my body, muffling everything I sense. I stare down at the man, trying to shake away the glare, trying to stop the tears from filling my eyes also. I become aware of footsteps hastily approaching our position. Officers rush into the room, apprehending the man on the floor. They throw questions at me, questions I can't hear. A neighbor's name reaches my brain, and I understand that someone has reported the sound of gunshots to the police.

"She killed my son!" the man screams, as he's forced from my apartment, "She killed him! She's a murderer!"

His screams slowly fade, and soon the officers leave after taking my story. They have located the gun in my apartment and confiscated it along with the switchblade. They leave just as quickly as they arrive, and I am alone in my apartment again. I am briefly reminded of my childhood, praying for the police to answer my screams for help. I push that memory away, since I'm not currently stable to handle it.

I stare at the holes in my door, the light from the hallway filtering in through the small openings. I pull my backpack over to the side of my couch. I open it and pull out my largest textbook. I flip to the first chapter and begin studying for my exam.

I won't be getting any sleep tonight.


	6. Therapy

We sit in a small circle. There are fifteen to twenty of us in all, but the ring in which we sit is cramped. The two people on either side of me are almost in contact with my body. The forty-something man sitting in the small chair to my left has his legs crossed and the sole of his shoe nearly rests on my knee. The younger guy to my right has his legs spread far apart from each other, as if his testicles were basketballs and needed all that space for them. In response to both of them, I've got both of my legs tucked beneath my chair and entwined with one another. My arms are crossed over my chest and the hood of my sweatshirt is over the top of my head.

The only person who seems to have plenty of room is my therapist, Doctor Lawson, who is leading this underground group therapy session. I started seeing Dr. Lawson when my nightmares were becoming too frequent. I asked him for some sleeping pills, and he gave me some - on the condition that I would see him once a week for monitoring purposes.

The nightmares continued, but I slept through them, feeling rested (although still feeling disturbed) in the morning. And my sessions with Dr. Lawson have been…helpful. I kept myself vague for the first few weeks, but once I finally revealed myself to Dr. Lawson, he suggested I come to this group therapy session. The session was held in complete privacy, since the government doesn't acknowledge the anguish The Program creates, and would promptly obliterate any gathering of enemies of The Program. Most, if not all, of the people attending are relatives of people lost to The Program. I'm not sure how they'll respond to me.

Dr. Lawson clears his throat so that everyone is aware we are about to begin. He smiles and welcomes everyone to the gathering. I can feel questioning glances shot my way, but no one says anything about my intrusion. Dr. Lawson motions to me and refers to me as the newcomer, but says that I will introduce myself once I feel comfortable.

A few people stand and address the gathering. All of their stories sound so similar – most of these people are parents of children lost to The Program. It only takes a few stories before tears are filling nearly everyone's eyes, all of them becoming fully aware of the loss in their lives.

"Hello, everyone, my name is Bella, and I am a victim of The Program."

"Hello Bella." Everyone says at once, and I'm surprised to see that I answer as well. I frown at myself, unsure where my attention is focused.

"Well, my adjustment to the empty house isn't going so smoothly. Now that Henry is finally out of my life…" She unconsciously rubs her hands over her arms and chest and I see, for just a moment, the discoloration of a bruise on her forearm. "…it's just me in the house. I don't think it would be so lonely if only-" She stops short, placing a hand over her mouth and tears stream down her face. It feels like the air is sucked out of the room as everyone holds their breath, trying not to break down – it suffocates me. Slowly Bella continues, and I can breathe again.

"I think she would be happy that I've finally kicked her father out. He abused us both for far too long. It's pretty ironic that I get the strength to do it once she's dead. I think…I think a part of me…wanted to do it for her memory. Because it was what I should have done…long before The Program took her from me."

I take a deep gulp. I glance discreetly at my watch. I want to get out of here – this place is overflowing with emotion. It weighs heavy on me, and I feel like I'm being crushed by its weight. The burdens on these people – it's almost too much for me to take. And what happens if I reveal myself to them? Will their sadness turn to anger? Am I safe here?

"I've finally cleaned out her room." Bella continues, "It took me almost a month to do it, because every time…every time I walked in…I got a little nauseous and I h-had to leave. But I finally finished, and…I…" She stops for a moment, looking around at all the eyes watching her. She takes a deep breath and continues.

"I…I think what…what r-really helps me through the night…is that I know that…she didn't have to suffer for very long. She was the f-first kill. A-And that…that lets me think…that she didn't have to be afraid for very l-long. At least she didn't suffer…my little Donna."

I tense up immediately. I was afraid this was going to happen. Donna, Girl #7, was the first to die in my season of The Program. There's no way I can speak now. I just know that Bella will realize that her daughter is dead because I'm alive. And she'll react. And everyone will join in; they'll all take out their loss on me – the person who represents the reason why their loved ones are dead.

Bella collapses in her seat and I glance over at Dr. Lawson, who is staring directly in my direction. I shake my head subtly at him while everyone's attention is still focused on the sobbing Bella. He smirks and then clears his throat again. My hands clench into fists as I stare at him from inside my hood. He wouldn't-

"I think this would be a great time for our newcomer to introduce herself." Everyone stares at my hunched figure. From inside my hood my shielded face stares back, my palms growing sweaty. Slowly I climb to my feet. This isn't going to be easy or fun. But there's no point in dancing around my identity.

"Hi, everyone. My name is Leslie. But most of you probably know me as…Girl #25." I pull back my hood, allowing my blond hair to tumble in every direction.

"Hello Leslie." Dr. Lawson, and only Dr. Lawson, says. The other people in the circle allow their mouths to drop, their chairs to unconsciously slide a few inches away from me. The air is sucked out of the room once again, and it's hard to find my voice. Finally, it takes hold.

"Most of you may have heard of me as…last season's winner." Again I get no reaction from anyone in the room. My eyes drift over to Bella, who is staring at the floor between her feet.

"Some of you may be wondering what it's like to be the sole survivor of a massacre. Well, it's no where near as glamorous as you might think. I have nightmares every time I go to bed. And sometimes I'll be gazing off into space and when I snap out of it, I'll find out that I'm crying and I'll realize that I was thinking of everything I saw in that playing field."

I see some concerned faces out in the crows now, some of them getting their first real glance at what happens in The Program.

"The worst is when I'll just suddenly feel like I did when I was there. The fear just overwhelms you so that you don't know what to think, and the anxiety sits in your stomach. It just sits there so that all you can wonder is: when will I die so that I don't have to feel afraid anymore. I could be sitting in class or riding the bus or walking down the street and I'll suddenly wonder if someone around me is going to attack. The Program…changes you…reprograms you. It makes you want to kill everyone you see because they might be a threat. Can you imagine what that's like – being constantly afraid?"

I'm shaking a little, but I fight through it. I've gone this far, I can't be afraid of finishing. Almost everyone is staring at me now. Even Bella has raised her eyes from the ground.

"I'm no better off than everyone else picked for my season of The Program. Does that sound strange to you? It probably sounds really selfish. It does to me, but I can't deny it. Because I left myself on that battlefield, just like everyone else. Some would say that I'm more of a human now than when I entered The Program. But-"

An image of Connor flashes in my head, and suddenly I can't stop the tears from flowing. They all seem surprised to see me crying. Maybe they didn't understand that even the winner of The Program is a person. A person who has seen more horrors than anyone should in their lifetime.

"I left one of the most important people of my life in that playing field…"

I stop, shaking my head. I'm not ready for this, not yet at least. I take a few quick breaths to compose myself again.

"But it's the guilt that really gets me. I'm alive because 49 other people died. I can't seem to forget that fact. I'm not sure how I could forget it. But no one else lets me forget it either. I'm a celebrity to some people, a murderer to others. Some shower me with attention while others scream when they bump into me. And then there are those who…attack me. Some so they can say they beat The Program winner. And one…to avenge his son who died…at my hands."

I can see it in their eyes. They don't know how to react. Most of them want to hate me, because it's easy to hate the person who was allowed to live. But I think they're all beginning to see that I'm not the villain here. I'm not the reason their loved ones are gone. The Program killed them.

"I think it's my routine that has kept my sanity. I go to school, my self defense classes, and I'm always reading new books. I'm trying to learn new things like electronics…and computer hacking… If I didn't have these things to occupy my time…I'd waste all of it just thinking about what happened…I think that's why most of the winners lose their minds. They can't deal with the thoughts and memories that keep popping into their heads all the time. Sometimes, suicide seems like the best option for me. But I can't allow myself to do that. Killing myself…would make all their lives wasted. Or, at least I think so. That probably sounds really selfish to you too. I'm sorry, this is so scattered, but I haven't…no one else seems to understand…"

"We understand, Leslie." Dr. Lawson says softly. People begin to nod, their faces holding untold kindness. It's too much for me to handle. I nod too, and then I pull the hood back over my head and take my seat. The session continues a little longer, and I can see Bella glancing over at me every once in a while. Finally I decide to meet the stare, and Bella smiles warmly in my direction with a slight nod. I smirk back at her from the shadows of my hood, and I watch the rest of group therapy session through the salty tears that simply refuse to go away.


End file.
